March 6, 2019

delay in detonation

Some clouds dissipate.
I think this blog is not helping my snit-riddled insistence on saying something one time, thoroughly and well, and then refusing to repeat myself because it's not efficient to do so.  That kind of isn't okay in therapy, but has that ever stopped me in the past?  No.

"So did you send that letter to your mother?" Therapist Gumby asked.

"You didn't read the blog," I accused, clearly entitled to chunks of his free time.

"I did!" he said.  "When did you ... which one was it?  I missed something."

I pointed at his laptop.  "Spring Street.  Read it," I commanded.  Then I brought out my phone and said, "I'll re-read it, too, and then we can use that as a launching point."

This we did.

Why am I considered a difficult client?  Why imperious?  This confuses me.

"Well?" he asked.

"I think the bad bits are being suppressed in my brain somewhere.  Thinking about how hurt my mother must be, about causing someone pain.  The disapproval.  What I've done.  I'm vaguely aware of all that, but the mushroom cloud hasn't arrived.  I'm sure it will.  My brain just hasn't detonated the bomb yet."

"Maybe it won't be a ton of bricks.  Maybe only a half-ton?  Or dropped one at a time?"

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.  But I am feeling all the good parts.  I don't have to fake it any more.  I don't have to make up bullshit, or dread ... dread a lot of things.  The absence of dread is palpable.  I'm rather enjoying it.  That, too, is a bit muted, though," I said.  "And this is one of those stupid situations in life where you have to make an important decision and only after you make it does someone hand you the envelope, and you get to find out if it was the right one or not."

He smirked.  "Don't you love those?"

"Pfffft.  Fortunately, I won this one.  Even with everything else muted, I know with certainty that this was the right thing."

And who knows?  Maybe the bomb will be faulty and nothing will go off at all.  Or maybe, maybe, it will explode in fire and hot winds and penetrating radiation, and I'll survive it anyway, because I'm just that incorrigibly stubborn.  Try me.

4 comments:

  1. Mushrooms, bombs, minor farts or bricks - you're still you and I still love you

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  2. I get really exhausted repeating a story. To fix this I just tell my sister everything once, and she happily goes and relays it to everybody who needs to know, sometimes several times. It's a great codepend--er, symbiosis.

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